Our last outing as an intrepid hiking duo, as opposed to leaping out of a closet, was Scafell Pike and Skiddaw. We had tackled Scafell Pike in 37C after a 5.5 hour drive, and then Skiddaw in much more sociable conditions the next day. This had led me to label it a game of two halves, and given that originality is not seemingly my middle name, this yomp gets the same hashtag.
Table Mountain
Our original plan had been to tackle Carrauntoohil, but with lives full of other things, and limited knowledge of proper mountain walking, the various reviews of likely death on an Irish mountain, and vastly changeable weather being a feature of that summit left us re-trenching our plans to south Wales. The Brecon Beacons it would be.
With even less training and preparation than before (there is a developing theme here), we headed West to the land of Eisteddfod, harps, Brains SA, and consonants. The weather was, how can I put this, a bit shit really, with squally showers punctuating the journey, but the traffic was kind. Before we knew it, we were crossing the Severn bridge, and frantically rummaging for passports.
In no more time than two shakes of a lamb’s tail, we were parked up in Crickhowell, being scammed by a lovely looking but clearly devious pensioner (she was lovely and genuine really). The weather was now just perfect, and so we set about changing in the middle of a car park, before heading off in pursuit of Table Mountain.
Now, Table Mountain sounds grand. Lofty. Spectacular. Even majestic. In fact, and I don’t want to upset anyone, only the Dutch would likely get aroused by its height. With the “mountain” being just a little taller than Virgil van Diyk, our confidence in the achievability of the day’s endeavour surged.
The walk was kind, with the views unfolding behind us. We encountered a sheep that seemed to be using a fence like a glory hole, and we compassionately showed it the error of its ways. There’s a clear reason why they don’t drive cars or vote, but they taste nice in a bhuna.
In no time at all, we summited, ate some food, and then sauntered over to Pen Cerrig-calch, which (being a slightly more worthy 701m) offered sun-kissed views of Pen-y-Fan – our destination tomorrow.
At the summit we met a lovely couple who were happily walking with their dog. Well, he was a couple of postcodes ahead, seemingly happy to be out of earshot. His partner duly arrived with a dog that looked like it was in market for the pet equivalent of Dignitas. It’s as well that dogs can’t talk, as this would like likely have been uttering obscenities with each wretched step.
Anyway, we made our way down via the speed-hump that was Table Mountain, and shimmied our way to Brecon – home for the next two nights.
The Euros were on, and so began my education into the true art of the beautiful game. Seemingly the best and most exciting way to win a game of football is to fall over lots while hamming it up, avoid scoring goals, and then hope that you score more penalties. No wonder the crowds get restless and drunk at the stadium, or embrace domestic violence in the home.
Pen-y-Fan
If the weather on the way down the M4 had been poor, the forecast for Saturday was comical. Shit with a chance or more shit, and if we were lucky, the sun was due to make a guest appearance about the same time as the England v Switzerland game was due to kick-off. Not wanting to miss what was likely to be 120 minutes of theatrics followed by Pickford gurning at the Swiss penalty-takers, we set our alarms, and headed to the Cwm Gwdi car park for a 9am start.
Given the time of day and the forecast, the car park was basically empty, with only 3 or 4 other cars parked up. I assume they were hikers, but there’s half a chance they were left-overs from a Friday night of Stan Collimore clothing optional fun. Who knows?
We donned our various hiking wear, and set off in pursuit of expanding vistas and heart-filling solitude.
No sooner than we had set off than we bumped into 2 males who looked like they’d run up and down the mountain. The second chap looked like he had only one thing on his mind, being murder. I chose not to tell Andy that Pen-y-Fan has history in the form of Tommy Jones. I felt it might set a bleak tone.
As we gained altitude, we walked first into cloud with mizzle, which became rain, which became an unrelenting barrage of angry Welsh water. The joy of the occasion left the virtual building, and we hunkered down against the elements as best we could.
We met a group of cheery Lancastrians about 2/3 of the way up, and traded happy jokes about the BBQ weather that we were sharing.
Just below the summit we exchanged notes with a group who were descending, only to be told by me that they were coming off the summit 90% the wrong direction. I say this not to parade my knowledge of the area, but to show how easy it is to get lost when the visibility is about 20 feet.
Summiting was brief, with my baseball cap and glasses variously making bids for freedom. I took a quick video of the weather soup, and we hastened our way back down again – the way we had come. Thoughts of Corn Du, Cribyn, and Fan-y-Big were rapidly shelved.
Getting down was an exercise in speed and care. We met groups who were on their way up, and I bellowed increasing levels of insanity at them, about burger vans on the summit. My favourite was a chap in designer trainers who was sporting an umbrella. I wonder which part of Powys that ended up in.
We got back to the car, and took off our soggy clothing. The car that had appeared next to ours was fogged-up, which leant further weight to the theory that this was less of a car park for hikers, and more a hot-spot for mobile shaggery. As we changed, the scene was set for a repeat of the classic There’s something about Mary rest-stop police bust. I peeled Andy away from the car, and we returned to the flat to get some lunch.
We watched some Tour de France back at the flat, with Andy slack-jawed that 5 hours of bicycle racing could come down to a 500m sprint.
I then watched 120 minutes of football, being slack-jawed that a team costing £1Bn are just so in love with penalties that they only score a goal if they absolutely have to. Unbelievable.
Dinner was in a fab tapas and gin bar. I got to eat my meal, and then wear it for afters. Which was nice.
All in all, a solid couple of days with a good friend.
